Chapter Five

A knock sounded on Francis's outer door. No doubt his dissolute neighbor, drunk again and knocking on the wrong door for his valet to let him in. Francis grabbed his timepiece off his bedside table and flipped it open to read by the light of his bedchamber fireplace.

A quarter to one in the morning! Francis gritted his teeth and slid from his warm bed to pull on a pair of trousers and tug yesterday's shirt over his head. He groaned at the cold of the timber floor on his bare feet and padded to the front door.

Francis flung open the door. "What in blazes, Merrick…" But it wasn't his neighbor. Joe, the porter at The Brody School for Young Ladies, stood before him, battered hat in hand and clothes thrown on haphazardly.

Francis's heart leaped up his throat. "What's happened? Are my sisters in trouble?" There was no one who could do a better job of protecting "the young misses", as Joe called the schoolgirls and their teachers.

"Calm yourself, Master Francis, your sisters are fine. Still in ‘ampshire." He half-turned to his right. "I've brought this lady to you. She says yer gave 'er yer card to come to 'ere if she were in trouble."

Francis looked past Joe. "Miss Bartlett!" She looked pale and her clothes were rumpled and soiled. His chest hollowed. What had happened to her? "Come inside, both of you." He stepped back to let them enter.

They moved into his sitting room. Francis checked there was no one in the passageway to witness his visitors' arrival and closed the door. Miss Bartlett's arms were clamped around her waist and her face blanched white.

He reached out towards her, but pulled back from touching her in case he caused her further distress. Instead, he directed her to a large, upholstered chair before his fireplace and urged her into it. "What's happened?"

Joe interrupted. "If you won't be needing me again, I'll get back to the school. I don't like leaving Mrs. Creevy alone in that big 'ouse without protection. Never know when there might be a burglary these days." Worry showed on his lined face.

Francis looked over at the man who had served the Brody family for decades. And had been sweet on Mrs. Creevy for just as long. "Of course, Joe. I'll look after Miss Bartlett. Thank you for bringing her to me." He strode to the mantelpiece for some coins, which he handed to Joe. "Get a hackney back. It's too dangerous to be on the streets at this time of the night."

Joe tugged his forelock in thanks and quietly let himself out of Francis's rooms.

Francis returned to Clarissa in the wing-back chair and claimed its twin opposite. "What happened? And where is your aunt?"

"Warming Lord Marchmere's bed, I presume." Her mouth twisted grimly.

"She abandoned you somewhere to go off with him?" Incredulity at the idea took his breath away.

"No, she took me with her to be Lord Travener's plaything."

Anger ignited in his chest. "She what?" he asked, barely containing his wrath.

Clarissa gripped his hand. "It's all right, I got away from them. Gave Travener a good blow to his old fellow when he got handsy and leapt out of the carriage."

What the hell! The blackguard. A tide of relief flowed through him at the news that Clarissa had escaped ravishment. The rotter deserved far worse, but Francis couldn't help but wince at the thought of the blow.

As she told him the remainder of her adventure in the streets of London after midnight, Francis could only thank God that she had remained unharmed on her way to The Brody School.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Despite the streaks of dirt on her crumpled silk dress, Miss Bartlett still looked like a glamorous goddess come down to earth.

"Yes, I'm shaken, but getting better now. I could murder a cup of tea though."

Francis smiled at her reversion to the common London accent from her usual upper-class elocution. Warmth filled his chest at the thought she trusted him enough to open up to him. That she felt relaxed enough in his company to reveal her true self, rather than the trained actress with perfect diction that she presented to everyone else.

Clarissa sank back into her chair.

Francis turned to the sitting room fireplace and stirred up the fire with a poker before adding more coals. He swiveled his still-warm kettle on its stand over the flames to boil water. Into a stoneware teapot he tossed a generous handful of tea leaves, then set up two porcelain teacups and a bowl of sugar on a side table. Clarissa's eyes tracked his every movement.

A jug of milk from the window ledge completed the tea tray. The kettle whistled and Francis filled the tea pot with boiled water and moved it to the table to steep. He waited a few moments, conscious of her watchful gaze on him, then stirred the pot and poured the tea into two cups then handed one to her. "Sugar? Milk?"

She nodded and he placed a large sugar lump and a splash of milk in her cup before handing it to her. "Drink up, then I'll take you to the Mission, where you'll be safe."

Miss Bartlett set the teacup down in its saucer with a clatter. "I refuse to enter this Mission you keep talking of."

Francis frowned at her stubbornness. "Even now that my fears about Travener have been proven well-founded?" The danger worse than I feared .

"Even now. I've told you why." Her eyes flashed and pink suffused her cheeks. "I'll separate from my aunt."

"Of course," he said in the most placating tone he could summon, while his mind yelled, ‘But you need protection' . Picking up his cup, Francis eased back in his chair.

They drank in silence for a while. The hot tea calmed Francis. He wanted to re-assure Clarissa, help her. But would she let him?

From outside came distant road noises, broken only by the call of the watch on the hour. The quiet and warmth of the room seemed to foster a sense of harmony.

Now that his anger on her behalf had faded and Clarissa had regained her color, Francis found that just her presence in his room raised his heart rate. Her lilac scent stirred his senses. His attraction to her warred with his duty to provide pastoral care for her, which was his only legitimate role in her life.

Miss Bartlett drained her tea and set the cup in its saucer. "Aah."

"Feeling better now?"

She leant further back in the chair and smiled at him sleepily.

"Don't get too relaxed, you need to make a decision about your next step, so this evening's events never occur again." I am being pushy, but it's necessary.

Clarissa frowned at him.

"Assuming that is what you wish to happen?" He backtracked to ensure he wasn't appearing to tell her how to live her life. Which of course, I am.

"Tomorrow, I'll find new lodgings. Now, I just wish to sleep." Her tone brooked no argument.

"You take the bed. The sheets are clean today. And I barely made it to bed by midnight." He stood up and offered her his hand to rise. "Come, let me assist you."

"Where will you sleep, Reverend Frank?" she asked. A crease formed between her eyebrows.

"Here, of course." He gestured with his hand to indicate the room.

Clarissa lowered her sad gaze from him and nodded. "Thank you," she whispered.

He longed to hold her and comfort her until her confidence returned. but such an idea was inappropriate, especially when she had just been assaulted.

The last time he had comforted a woman in his arms—his recently widowed landlady in Oxford when he was a new graduate—had led to his seduction by her. She had drawn him down to lie with her and encouraged him until nature took its course—as it had so easily. Francis scolded his wayward thoughts, knowing how much anguish such actions caused.

For three weeks, he had fallen into her bed, raw young idiot that he was, until the morning he had looked over at her sated, sleeping body and knew without a doubt that he didn't love her. Cold realization had crept icy fingers through his veins. If he didn't love this woman, he had no right to have relations with her. And it might be too late already to avoid the parson's noose, which getting her with child would bring.

He had never lain with her again. He had prayed that she didn't have the clap, although she'd sworn that she had been with no man but her husband. That would be one of the very real wages of the sin he had committed.

In new lodgings, he'd waited long weeks, before breathing freely again, certain that his landlady was not with child and he had contracted no disease from their liaison. And during that time of fear, he had become determined that he must follow more closely in his father's footsteps. He had vowed never to behave in such a weak and using manner again.

And ever since, he had felt obliged to assist women who had been exploited by men and then discarded. Nor had he repeated his own misdemeanor.

He had learned from that experience not to accept the offers that occasionally came his way from lonely widows and even from some actresses under his pastoral care. Why they singled him out, he had no idea. Thank goodness Clarissa was not like them.

Clarissa slid her hand into his and electricity zinged up his arm at her touch, firing every nerve from his fingertips to his cock. He closed his eyes and fought for control of his wayward thoughts and body, then braced himself to gently raise her to her feet.

When he opened his eyes again, she stood before him, cheeks flushed and eyes looking over his shoulder into his bedchamber beyond with its rumpled bed sheets. Only in his wildest dreams did he think she was imagining, like him, what it would be like to walk together into that room hand-in-hand and to sink back onto the feather bed and under the warm bedclothes together.

May the good Lord give him strength to resist his attraction to Miss Clarissa Bartlett. She deserved far more than the imaginings and fumblings of an impecunious curate. She deserved respect from him and all men.

He bowed over her hand. "Good night, Miss Bartlett," he murmured.

"I think that now you have rescued me from the dastardly Lord Travener and I will be sleeping in your bedchamber, you should call me Clarissa." She sent him cheeky smile, which gave him hope that she had recovered somewhat from her ordeal.

He sent her a smile to acknowledge her generosity in allowing him to use her name. "Thank you, Clarissa."

"And I shall call you Frank." She chuckled to herself, apparently amused at her own cheekiness.

His jaw clenched at her bantering tone. Dismissing his response as a petty over-reaction, he led her to the doorway of the bedchamber. She swept through it without a backward look and he closed the door behind her with a sharp click of finality.

His heart contracted. That she did not reciprocate his infatuation with her was clear . And thank goodness for that!